


Chicken Soup for the Soul

by MDJensen



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Chin's an awesome friend let's be real, Danny misses Jersey like whoa, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Sick Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 14:07:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13273056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: Danny's homesick, and sick sick. Chin's a good friend. Set soon after 1x08.





	Chicken Soup for the Soul

It was Steve’s fault. Really, though. Without Steve he’d still be at HPD, therefore working different cases, therefore being in contact with totally different people on the day to day. His every moment would be different.

So logically, whoever gave him strep is somebody he would not have come across if not for Steve McGarrett. Ergo, Steve’s fault.

It’s not much of a comfort, being bitter, though, which speaks to how truly miserable he is. Usually being bitter is an immense comfort. But now, huddled up on the pull-out, running a fever well over 102, with honest-to-god knives stabbing him every time he tries to swallow— too miserable to be bitter. Too miserable, in fact, to do anything but sleep. And yet! Too fucking miserable to sleep.

Five years ago, Danny thinks, absently, this all would be so different; five years ago when he and Rachel were not only still married but deeply in love. Ridiculously in love. Five years ago he’d be wrapped up warm in their creaky but still comfy bed, and Rachel would be fussing in the best way possible— she refused, _Daniel_ , to cow to _man flus_ but whenever Danny actually spiked a decent fever she was a regular nightingale. She’d be with him now, stroking his hair, bringing him popsicles, just fucking being there.

Instead he’s alone. And it’s not like that’s unusual, but it just-- it just sucks more than usual, when combined with being sick. Too much shit piled on all at once.

Not to mention it’s his night with Grace tomorrow. Of-fucking-course.

Everything sucks and he has nobody to talk to about it, and that in and of itself becomes its own sucky thing. That, though, that is something he could change. He doesn’t need somebody physically there, catching his germs, but he has this thing called a telephone. Maybe he could call somebody-- maybe Meka. Not to come over and sit at his sickbed, for fucks sake, but just to rant for a minute, and receive in turn a little sympathy, a little human contact—

Fuck.

Meka’s dead.

Meka’s fucking dead. He’s been dead for fucking weeks now, and this is perhaps the third or fourth time it’s _hit_ Danny. Somehow every time feels worse than the last.

Tears prick his already-aching eyes and Danny buries his face in the pillow and lets them soak into the fabric there. His throat hurts too much to hold them back. It also hurts too much, of course, to give in, to have a good old-fashioned cry, so he lies there in limbo, heat scorching every inch of him, seeping in liquid form out between closed eyelids, trying to breathe through his nose.

Meka’s dead. He’s sick for his night with Grace. Meka’s dead. And every other friend he has on this stupid planet is a thousand-dollar plane ride away.

Everything sucks and he just-- hates it. He just fucking hates it.

And that, of course, is when the doorbell rings.

Danny scrubs his eyes, forces a steady breath. All the legal papers he’s been served have conditioned him to hate the doorbell, but there can’t be any more of those coming, right? So the odds that this is something bad are low, maybe five percent. Ninety percent chance it’s nothing in particular-- cable salesmen or a religious outreach thing, or maybe a package he’s forgotten he ordered. Five percent chance, though, his mom’s sent him something nice. A box of Tastykakes (nowhere to be found in Hawaii), or a shirt she thought he might like, or even that photo album she said she’d been working on--

Holding that tiny hope in mind, he crawls out of bed and shuffles over to the door.

It’s not a package, from Ma or otherwise. It’s nobody selling anything-- not cable or religion.

It’s Chin.

It is Chin Ho fucking Kelly.

Danny forgets to be embarrassed, forgets to be whatever he’d normally be, and just gives into the utter relief of a friendly fucking face.

“Hey, brah.” Chin’s smiling. “You’ve looked better.”

“‘ve fel’ better,” Danny rasps, and Chin scowls.

“Don’t talk. I’m not gonna keep you out of bed, I just wanted to bring you some soup.”

Danny blinks, feeling stupid. In his surprise he’d forgotten to actually wonder why the guy was there, but he wouldn’t’ve guessed it’d be this. “Brough’ me soup?”

“Mm-hm. Soup.” He holds up a bag and Danny sees that it doesn’t even have cans in it; it’s got a giant plastic tub, like the ones from his family’s favorite deli.

Holy shit; Chin brought him soup.

Chin’s still talking. “You want me to heat it up, or stick it in the fridge?”

Fridge, Danny starts to say, but the merest suggestion of food makes his stomach growl audibly. Chin laughs. He brushes past Danny and goes over to the tiny kitchenette, finds a bowl and a spoon and starts ladling.

“Chicken noodle, right? That’s what ha— that’s what you guys eat on the mainland.”

 _Ma prefers matzo ball_ , Danny thinks, but nods. Doesn’t even mind Chin almost calling him a haole, doesn’t even mind the eggshell-stepping way in which he made sure not to because of the equally carefully way in which Chin is scooping up the soup innards, making sure he doesn’t just pour empty broth. The bowl goes in the microwave, and Danny sinks onto his bed.

Chin perches beside him while the soup heats up, and eyes him in a very coppy way. “Steve said it’s strep. You picked up your antibiotics, right?”

“Mm.”

“Do you have Advil? For the fever?”

“Mm,” Danny says again, and nods, in case it’s not clear.

“I haven’t had strep since I was a kid. But I remember it being pretty miserable.”

“Feel li’ shi’,” Danny admits, and Chin pats his back.

“The meds will kick in soon. Is there anything I can do in the meantime?”

Danny shakes his head. He’s just glad of Chin’s presence, of the proof that somebody in this world gives a shit if he lives or dies. Or more specifically, that someone on this island does. Plenty of people give a shit about that, it’s just that most of them are on the mainland and some of them are dead, so--

“Hey,” Chin murmurs. “Besides, you know, the bacteria colonizing your throat— is something else the matter?”

So here’s the moment, then: the moment that Chin is either a work friend or a friend friend. He did bring soup. Chicken noodle soup too, not whatever shrimp pineapple mush his mom probably made him when he was sick as a kid.

Danny rubs his nose, absently. “Guess ‘m a little homesi’’.”

Fuck, talking hurts. His throat feels swollen and raw and it aches more on the stiffer letters. But suddenly not talking isn’t an option.

Chin’s smiling. “Yeah. It always feels worse when you’re sick, right?”

Danny nods.

“I bet your mom’s the kind to make a fuss.”

Danny nods, sheepish but wise enough now to also be grateful. “Ha’ the wors’ cold one time... never forge’ her bringin’ me cough drops and tissues li’, to the precin’. Straigh’ t’my desk. I was twen’y-six.”

“That’s really embarrassing,” Chin says, in a stage-whisper. He’s got the kind of smile that lights up his whole face; it’s something Danny never noticed before but something he’s suddenly glad for now. “Hey. I give you so much credit, what you did for Grace, brah. I live twenty minutes from the house I grew up in. Even with my parents gone I don’t think I’d have the guts to move away. Nobody could blame you for being a little homesick.” Chin’s not smiling now, but his face is still kind of soft. “That’s-- that’s what’s got you so down. Yeah?”

Danny sighs, and pushes his hand through his hair. It’s the first day in for-fucking-ever it’s got no gel in it, and stupid as it sounds, it’s kind of calming, being able to actually drag his fingers through it.

“I-- I’m no’ actually, mm, loopy, okay? No’ delirious.”

“Okay?”

“Bu’ this morning I fel’ so sick an’ I jus’ fel’ li’ bitchin’ to someone—“

Chin laughs—

“By instinc’, I guess, I though’ about callin’ Meka.”

The smile drops from Chin’s face like a landslide, and Danny looks away. “Sorry.”

“No sorrys, brah,” Chin murmurs. “No, really, Danny. Listen to me. I-- I miss John. Every day.”

“It’s no’ li’ I even saw him tha’ much anymore. We’d ge’ drinks once inna blue moon, but-- mm.”

“I get it, Danny. John wasn’t my partner anymore; hell, I couldn’t tell you the last time I saw him. It still hurts. It’s still a gut punch, I know it is.”

Danny nods. “I knew-- I knew he ha’ my back and jus’— thinkin’ about him being gone, I jus’— Jesus Christ I jus’ fel’ so lonely, y’know?”

Tears swell up again, and one escapes and splashes into his lap. “Sorry,” Danny mumbles, burying his face in his hands. “Sorry. Caugh’ the weepies.”

He actually feels Chin’s eyebrows shifting. “You caught— the weepies?”

“‘swhat my ma calls i’. When you’re jus’, y’know. Fine. ‘m fine. Jus’— weepy. It’s the fever.”

“The weepies,” Chin repeats, testing it. “That’s— Danny, man, that’s one of the cutest things I’ve ever heard a grown man say.”

“Laugh i’ up.”

He still hasn’t raised his head, and now he feels a hand on his shoulder. “Danny, listen. When you need to talk about him, if you want to talk to me— I’m here, brah. Now, or when you’re feeling better. Whenever. Okay?”

“‘kay,” Danny rasps, feeling more tears spill. “I’n’ much to say. Jus’— i’ sucks, man.”

“It does. A lot.”

“An’ I dunno, I guess I’m jus’— I’m missin’ him and I’m missin’ Jersey, an’ Grace because I haven’ seen her in a week now, an’ ’m jus’—“

“Missing?”

“Yeah,” Danny sniffs, finally sitting back. Chin drops his hand, but Danny realizes now he’s scooted a little closer. They both stay silent, for a minute or two.

“Means so much to me,” Danny starts, a little less of a mess now. “Tha’ you guys came. So fuckin’ much, okay? Bu’ the thing is— Meka’s no’ the first partner I’ve los’. I-- I was jus’ a kid, 2001, I los’ my partner, Grace. An’ man, you gotta understan’, my people _rallied_. Righ’? Funeral was jus’ abou’ SRO ‘cause no’ only was her whole family there, mine was— my parents, brother, sisters, grandpop, cousins, nephew, all my friends— even the ones who’d never me’ her. I had four pews of jus’ my people.”

He rubs his nose, feeling drippy and disgusting and intensely aware that his face fluids are biohazards at the moment.

“An’ I mean, back in Jersey-- wasn’ perfec, righ’? Still broke, still divorce’. Bu’ I-- I had my people. Though’ I did, anyway. You know I’ve been here almos’ a year an’-- an’ nobody’s visited me? Nobody?”

And no, okay, fuck it: still a mess. More of mess, really. Apparently he’s gone from the weepies to I Am Going To Have A Complete Fucking Breakdown (In Front Of Chin I Guess.)

There’s a touch on his back, then, and Danny folds away from it. “M fine. Ge’ off,” he croaks, not letting Chin put an arm around him. Chin takes the arm away, but lays one cool hand on the back of Danny’s neck and squeezes gently while Danny gulps down shuddery breaths, scrubbing and sniffing and trying get a fucking grip.

“M fine,” he huffs, not willing to go completely to pieces. “’m fine. Holy _shit_ my throa’ hur’s.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to be resting your voice.”

“Your faul’. I wouldn’ be talkin’ to myself. Soup ready ye’?”

Chin’s hand lets go, and Danny hears the man stepping away, giving a little space for Danny to collect himself further. And Danny does, catches his breath at last. Then Chin’s back, handing him a glass of water; he takes it, takes a drink, washes the urge to cry back down to his belly where it belongs. Chin goes away again. Danny sips more water and swallows down snot and strep throaty crap and feels a little better.

Chin comes back and takes the glass when he’s finished, and hands him a bowl of soup and a spoon. Danny grunts his thanks. He’s kind of worked himself up to the point of not being hungry anymore, but not eating the soup at this point would be a really dick move, and he really should have something with the Advil he’s been taking anyway. So he sniffles one more time, dives in.

“‘sgood,” he croaks, after a few spoonfuls. “Almos’ Jersey devil level— Jersey devil— ugh. Jersey. Deli. Level.”

“You’re done in, brah,” Chin notes, not unkindly. “Think you can sleep when you’re done? Or is it one of those nasty fevers, keeps you up?”

“Think I can sleep,” Danny says, once he’s swallowed. The warmth hurt at first but now it’s helping. “Couldn’ before, bu’-- ”

 _But now I’ve worn myself out crying_ , he doesn’t finish; Chin smirks like he hears anyway.

Danny rubs his forehead, spoon still in hand, and groans a little. “Y’gonna hol’ this agains’ me.”

“No, I’m not.”

“No. I know you’re no’.”

“Eat,” Chin prompts. “Before you fall asleep in it.”

So Danny does. Chin goes back into the kitchenette and, from the sound of things, starts doing the dishes; Danny wants to tell him not to but actually it strikes a really good balance of Chin being there with Chin still giving him some space. He finishes (most of) his soup, and gets to his feet to bring the bowl in.

It’s a crappy idea, and he sways pretty badly; Chin’s at his side in an instant though, saving the bowl from being dropped, guiding Danny the few steps back to bed. He gets Danny settled, then takes the bowl to the sink.

Danny sits on the edge, watching; his heart’s going too fast from even those seconds of exertion, and he’s full-on dizzy. It’s a one-step-forward-two-step-back kind of day, apparently. Every time he thinks he’s getting back a little control it feels like he just shatters, into smaller pieces than ever.

Chin comes back over, sets another glass of water on the end table.

“I’m gonna leave you be. Okay, brah?”

Danny nods.

“Call me if you need anything. Or— you know. Danny, call me if you just need to call someone. Okay?”

Oh, _Chin_. Holy crap. How did he never realize how good of a guy Chin is before? Brought him soup and did his dishes and now he’s standing here letting Danny know that he’s someone he can call _just because_ …

It’s too damn much, and Danny’s eyes fill up, _again_. He bows his head; Chin kneels, and then Danny feels warm arms around him, pulling him into a gentle hug.

“Don’, Chin, ’m sick,” he protests— but this time ‘round he just doesn’t have the strength to fight the embrace. He slumps into it gratefully.

“Hey.” Chin’s voice is quiet but firm. “Danny, I know what it’s like to feel like nobody has your back. I’d much rather catch your bug than let you sit here and feel that way.”

Seems he doesn’t have the strength to fight the breakdown anymore either. “Okay,” Danny murmurs, voice cracking from more than just illness. He rests his forehead on Chin’s shoulder and the last of the dizziness straightens out; it leaves him still and calm and oddly okay with crying in front of someone else.

Chin cups the back of Danny’s head. Then, for a minute or two he just holds him, lets him cry. Shushing, humming, rocking him a little. The way Chin sways is like a tree in the breeze, Danny thinks, absently; in motion but steady, steady. Strong and sturdy and safe.

Finally the jag eases, then ends. Danny takes a couple of deep breaths, and coughs a little. “Christ,” he grunts. “‘m okay now. Holy shi’.”

Chin squeezes him one more time before pulling away. “No worries, brah,” he says, and Danny nods and brushes the wetness from his cheeks. They sit together on the edge of the pull-out while Danny’s breathing slows.

“Y’re a good frien’, Chin,” Danny says, at last. Chin smiles, looking happy but a little self-conscious too.

“That’s good to hear. Being somebody’s friend, you know— I could get used to that.”

“Good. Ge’ used to i’.”

Chin laughs quietly. “Okay. Now, though, you need sleep.”

“Sleep,” Danny echoes. Sleep does sound nice-- and better than nice, it sounds _possible_.

“Got your phone?” Chin prompts, standing.

“Mm.”

“Charger?”

“Mm.”

“Meds, water,” Chin notes, looking at the end table. “Tissues. Okay. You want the TV on, brah? Or anything else?”

Danny shakes his head, crawling under the blankets and curling up tight. “Okay. See you Thursday, then, Danny.”

“Bye,” Danny croaks.

And then, because Chin hasn’t laughed at him for anything else yet, tries: “ _mahalo_.”

He peeks up just enough to see Chin smile at him, before he toggles the lock on the door and lets himself out.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Oh man, my first H50 fanfic! It's a show I'd seen random episodes of and knew a little about, but recently decided to watch it from the beginning. I know that Danny and Steve become the standout besties of the show, but at the beginning I really couldn't see them sharing a moment like this. Chin, on the other hand, I could see Danny being fast friends with.
> 
> Anyway, I don't have anything big planned for this fandom as it's not my main thing, but sometimes it's fun to play in other sandboxes for a while. Perhaps I'll come up with a few more stories as I go on in the series. In any case, I hope you've enjoyed!
> 
> ETA 1/21: yes, I did come back and insert a shout-out to Danny's canon love for matzo ball soup :)


End file.
